


All the long gone darlings

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Community: got_exchange, Crossdressing Kink, F/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 06:54:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They lie with limbs entwined. Foreheads together, noses together, bellies together, hearts together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the long gone darlings

_Daylight_  
  
  
The cool evening breeze wafts through the open window, teasing his legs where the skirt of Cersei’s gown leaves them bare. She selected a silk for him today, bright crimson embroidered with gold and silver. He notices that the brocade-and-lace trim on one sleeve has come loose; this must be how she secreted it away to his chambers without the interference of her septa or maidservants.  
  
  
  
She giggles as she ties the sash- it fits him perfectly, for they are alike in all things, their proportions completely identical. All the while, the gentle wind continues to tickle his calves and the soft space behind his knees. He rocks his hips from side to side, and the silken skirt swishes to and fro. He relishes the airy freedom and wonders for a moment why Cersei would ever prefer to run about in his breeches.  
  
  
  
But she does, and he has promised already that they will switch places on the morrow. His sister turns him to face the large looking glass on the opposite wall, and she carefully draws a decorative comb through his hair, pinning the long curls to one side until they cascade over his shoulder like a golden waterfall.  
  
  
  
“Pretty,” she whispers, resting her chin on his shoulder. And the instant she begins to smile, he feels his lips curving up in perfect time.  
  
  
  
She wraps her arms around his waist and tilts her head to kiss his cheek. She smells of summer strawberries, and he nuzzles his face into hers, wanting to be closer. Always, always closer.  
  
  
  
The next morning, Cersei dons his clothing and darts out to the yard for a lesson with the master at arms. But first, she helps Jaime into the dress and tells him to join Mother in the sewing room.  
  
  
  
Mother greets him with a bright smile and outstretched arms, and he eagerly runs into her embrace, humming his delight when her elegant fingers slide into his curls and rub his scalp. He realizes his error in the next instant; Cersei never submits so willingly- she makes everyone, Mother included, work for her favor.  
  
  
  
He looks up at Mother’s face and feels his insides twist with anxiety at the knowing gleam in her green eyes. And yet she says nothing. She just calls him by his sister’s name and keeps him at her side all day, her lips twitching with mirth each time he makes a mess of Cersei’s embroidery hoop.  
  
  
  
They change back before supper, before Father ever finds out (and Mother won’t tell, he’s sure of it). That night, he creeps into Cersei’s bed (as he always does), and they lie with limbs entwined, clad in identical nightshifts. Foreheads together, noses together, bellies together, hearts together.  
  
  
.  
  
  
She makes Jaime trade clothes with her several days after Mother dies. There are more boys than usual at Casterly Rock: distant cousins and bannermen’s sons, all here to offer condolences and pay respects. She sprints out to the yard, Jaime’s practice sword clutched tight in her hand, breathing heavily through her nose as her jaw sets and her eyes narrow.  
  
  
Her sword whirs and spins and tears through the air- she forgets her footing, forgets the training she’d received the many other times she’d posed as Jaime. Her only thought is to make contact, to pummel and poke and beat and bruise until these boys hurt more than she hurts.  
  
  
They all flee from her, the cowards, and she moves along to the riding course, where Jaime’s groom has already saddled his horse. She jumps into the saddle and kicks the horse hard with her heel; it jolts and whinnies, and she does it again and again and again until the horse runs off at a violent tear.  
  
Her eyes water and her hands wobble, but she just keeps propelling the beast forward, on and on and on. She can hear voices shouting behind her, but she pays them no heed, none at all.  
  
  
The horse finally succeeds in throwing her, and she tumbles into a cluster of low bushes at the center of the castle courtyard. At once, the grooms and trainers descend upon her, checking her body for bruises and breaks. She isn’t hurt, not really- more stunned and breathless than anything else.  
  
  
Father dashes out to the yard, and her heart pounds wildly in her chest. He’s been so peculiar since Mother died, and she really cannot say what he will do when he discovers that she has been posing as Jaime. She glances up to see that every window in the castle is occupied; dozens and dozens of eyes are on her now. Even the tiny window in the top tower where the little monster sleeps has a pair of nurses gawking out of it.  
  
  
She steels herself for shouts and scolding, but Father only sweeps her into his arms and holds her tight to his chest. She stiffens at once; Father is not inclined toward such displays of affection, and the novelty of it alarms her. But then he starts murmuring in her ear- “My son. My son.”  
  
  
Immediately, her teeth grind together, and a hot anger pipes through her veins. She cannot even bring herself to feel triumphant for having thoroughly hoodwinked her father, not now, not when she understands how much Jaime means, and how little she means in comparison.  
  
  
Jaime runs out to the courtyard a few moments later, skirts billowing and hair flying, the septa trotting along in his wake. Father has since released her from his grasp, but Jaime takes his place, flinging his arms around her and squeezing until she can scarcely breathe.  
  
  
Jaime never wept when Mother died- neither of them did. But he weeps now, choking on quiet sobs. It touches something deep inside, and she feels her rage dissolve like sugar into water as she returns the embrace, warm tears leaking from her own eyes and mingling with Jaime’s to form a single stream.  
  
  
 _Dusk_  
  
  
  
She guides the gown over his head and bids him turn to grasp the post of her bed. This is not one of her own frocks; he stands well over a head above her, with broad shoulders and muscled limbs- they have not truly shared clothing in years. But this gown, emerald green trimmed with silver, seems designed for his proportions. He cannot imagine how she managed to have it made, and he does not ask.  
  
  
An elaborate network of boning and stays hold the bodice in place, and he gasps when she takes two of the lacings in her hands and pulls tight. She leans in to softly kiss the nape of his neck, but before he can turn and take her in his arms, she steps back again, tugging at the silken ties with all the force she can muster.  
  
  
The bodice feels unyielding as iron against his torso; it squeezes his lungs into a compact package, forcing his breathing into a shallow, sucking hiss.  
  
  
“Stop,” he whispers, a warm, buzzing sensation building behind his eyes.  
  
  
Cersei halts her progress. He can see her face in the looking glass hanging on the opposite wall; a frown pulls at her lips with something that looks dangerously like disappointment.  
  
  
“You can take no more, Ser?” she asks, an intoxicating current of challenge beneath her innocuous tone.  
  
  
He clenches his hands on the post and grits his teeth, grunting a pair of syllables: “Tighter.”  
  
  
Cersei’s eyes sparkle as she braces one foot against the small of his back and pulls, using the full weight of her body as leverage. A cloudy miasma dances before Jaime’s eyes, and he feels his muscles turning to fluid, everything spinning and swirling and melting-  
  
  
And then a snap, and Cersei tumbles to the floor. The broken stays lie limp in her hands, and Jaime reels as the air rushes back into his flattened lungs.  
  
  
He slides down to join her on the carpet, and her clever hands venture beneath his skirts to cup and stroke and tease. They tear at the dress together, leaving it in scraps and ribbons, their naked bodies golden in the firelight.  
  
  
The lack of air leaves him slightly weakened; bolstered by her own adrenaline, Cersei takes advantage of her greater strength, pinning him to the floor and mounting him. She burns where she touches him, flushed with power, trembling with lifeforce, and allows himself to be taken.  
  
  
.  
  
  
They recline together on the cushions of her bed, their skin slick with sweat and lust, flaxen hair mussed and necks studded with love bites. She turns her head and stares at the Kingsguard armor strewn across the room- heavy plates of snow-white metal, inlaid with gold. A notion wriggles its way into the forefront of her mind, too intriguing and beguiling to dismiss-  
  
  
“Put your armor on me.”  
  
  
She leaps from her twin’s embrace and stands naked before him, arms crossed over her chest, eyes blazing with determination. And Jaime knows better than to argue, anyhow.  
  
  
The steel stings her flesh with its chill, and she hisses through her teeth. Jaime pauses his buckling and fastening to pepper kisses up the side of her neck, and the pleasurable flush that spreads over her sternum banishes the cold.  
  
  
He affixes the armor piece by piece, and she watches her reflection in the mirror.  _This is as it should be, I was made for this._  
  
  
The suit presses heavily against her, but she thinks nothing of it.  _If Jaime can wear it, so too can I._  
  
  
And then she tries to take a step. She barely manages to lift her foot from the ground before her weak, useless woman’s body betrays her- she loses her balance, clanging and crashing to the floor.  
  
  
Fury and shame roil her stomach, and she can scarcely tolerate the gentleness of Jaime’s hands when he kneels at her side and unbuckles the armor without a word. She wants to tear at his skin, to scream him deaf, to punish him for his own fortune, for being all that she is not-  
  
  
But then he kisses her, an unspoken apology sweet on his tongue, and she stores her anger away- never discarding it, never forgetting it, but leaving it for another time, another place, another day.  
  
  
 _Darkness_  
  
  
He comes to her as a ghost, pale and sunken and shorn. The darkness of the room stands in his eyes until they become nothing but black pools, bottomless and vacant.  
  
  
She rises from the floor of her cell and approaches him. Rags cling to her bony arms, her skirts barely reaching her knobby knees. If not for the bared teeth and flashing green eyes, he would scarcely recognize her.  
  
  
She mouths the word-  _valonqar_ \- for her throat refuses to produce sound. He tilts his head, and she can sense the confusion-  _you don’t understand. You never did._  
  
  
He winces when she reaches for him and runs her icy fingertips over the fine prickle of hair on his scalp. Without thinking, he does the same- nothing remains of her lush, glorious curls but an abrasive layer of burrs, rough to the touch.  
  
  
She feels the coolness of his golden hand on her exposed arm, and she shudders. At once, his gaze turns sharp, and he lunges forward.  
  
  
He does not know when it begins, or how, or why. But soon enough, his ragged clothes lie in a pile on the floor, mingling with her own. The outlines of her bones press through the thin skin; he knows his do the same. They aren’t so different after all, here at the end of the world- skeletal creatures, stripped of their beauty and pride, the dead walking the earth.  
  
  
She melts to the ground in a slow trickle as his hand tightens around her throat. The eyes are clearer now- she sees that they are, in fact, still green, and her body floods with relief. Her bony hand scrabbles along the floor like a spider until it closes around the dagger that lies atop the pile of clothing.  
  
  
He scarcely feels the slash of the blade across his midsection. The light in her pupils flickers, her lashes flutter. A slick of brilliant red coats her translucent skin- its warmth is intoxicating, here in this frozen place.  
  
  
She drops the knife and wraps her arms around him; it shan’t be long now. His weight rests atop her, and he aligns himself as he used to do all those years ago, when they reflected each other in truth, when they were complete.  
  
  
Foreheads together, noses together, bellies together-  
  
  
Hearts together.


End file.
